Now, there's an eye-catching title for a piece of classical music. I've had this one in my collection for quite a while, and just decided to pull it out again. I'm glad I did. Some of the other music in the album is not quite so interesting, but this piece is (for me) extremely gripping and powerful.
In all but name, this is a piano concerto. It's official title is Concert Variations upon an English Theme ('Down Among the Dead Men') for Piano and Orchestra, Op. 71. The composer was Sir Charles Villiers Stanford, one of the leading composers and teachers of the renaissance of English composition in the late nineteenth century. Because Stanford was a man with a truly classical sensibility, he refused to classify this work as a "concerto" since it did not make use of the approved three-movement form. However, it lasts for close to half an hour and would certainly have been seen as a concerto by many of his contemporaries.
The tune is believed to be a traditional folk song which Stanford found in an obscure early collection of such material. The recording I have makes no mention of the song's words, and in this context they surely do not matter (in spite of the eye-catching title). The work exploits all the purely musical possibilities inherent in the tune to great effect, and that's what counts.
Like any good classical composer writing a set of variations, Stanford begins with an introduction that makes use of a short descending motif from the end of the tune before announcing the full melody itself. There then follow 12 variations in all, neatly divided in half by a grand climax at the end of Variation 6. This actually sounds like it could be an ending of the work, until a swift little transition leads the music into a gentler intermezzo which begins the second half. In the true classical manner, the variations are based not so much on the melody of the song (although bits and pieces of it occur in varying guises throughout) but on the bass line. Variation 6, again as an example, presents a rising, aspiring melody in the major key as different in character as could be from the original tune, but still using the same bass line as its foundation.
The writing for piano is very fluent, demonstrating the mastery which Stanford cultivated and for which he was famous. It's often been said that Stanford's mastery came at the expense of interest, originality, and passion, but that's not the case here. These variations cover a terrific variety of musical styles, all most convincingly integrated together, and with the partnership between piano and orchestra perfectly judged (and also nicely varied from point to point). The result, for me, is a major unknown masterpiece of the piano concerto repertoire.
The Chandos recording benefits enormously from that company's favoured rich acoustic, which highlights the full textures of many passages. Margaret Fingerhut is a splendid soloist, and the Ulster Orchestra under Vernon Handley play with power and passion to spare.
The accompanying Second Piano Concerto has its effective moments, but is apt to sound a little more like Brahms mixed with water -- a reaction I've also had to some of Stanford's symphonies. In the 2-CD re-release, these works accompany Stanford's six Irish Rhapsodies and here again the composer makes most effective use of traditional Irish tunes. So all in all, a rewarding release, but most especially for Down Among the Dead Men.
Sunday 28 July 2013
Friday 12 July 2013
Not Stringing you a Line!
It must be something in the air.
Why else would so many composers from one small group of islands become such masters at the art of manipulating the sound world of the orchestral strings? I'm not referring to string quartets and other variants of chamber music -- this post is specifically about music for stringed instruments en masse, a format which creates quite different sounds.
In most other countries, the sudden appearance of a passage in rich string-orchestral textures is somewhat of a rarity, an interruption in the normal routine of writing for the full orchestra as a body. Try to think of works for string orchestra from the European continent and a few string serenades come to mind -- Dvorak, Tchaikovsky, and perhaps Suk or Janacek. You may also zero in on one undoubted masterpiece of the highest rank, the Metamorphosen of Richard Strauss -- but even here Strauss was writing for 23 solo string players and the richer orchestral textures are shot through with many exquisite passages for only 1 or 2 players at a time.
But in the British Isles, including all of England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, string writing seems to be very much the essence of music making. Almost every major composer since the late 1800s (and most of the minor ones) have produced striking works scored for string orchestras. I really have no theories to suggest on why this should be so, but would love to hear any interesting guesses in the comment section!
The early years produced three popular and enduring masterpieces in this form, the Introduction and allegro by Elgar, the St. Paul's Suite by Holst, and the monumental Fantasia on a theme by Thomas Tallis by Vaughan Williams. These three works, in three very different styles, set the bar very high and doubtless inspired many composers who followed.
At any rate, today I want to discuss three quite different examples. The first is a piece by Granville Bantock called A Celtic Symphony, written for string orchestra and six (!!) harps. It was first performed in 1940, but I believe was written somewhat earlier. It's a classic piece of the type of folk-inflected writing so common in the earlier years of the century among such composers as Holst and Vaughan Williams. The combination of strings and harps creates a kind of misty sound which evokes to outlying regions of northern and western Scotland. I'm specifying Scotland (which is by no means the only Celtic region of Britain) simply because the main theme of the final section has an unmistakable and oft-repeated "Scotch snap" rhythm. The entire work lasts less than 20 minutes and can be divided into 4 "movements" although it is meant to be played continuously. The harps have their moment of glory shortly before the end when all six join in a swirling cadenza of simultaneous rising and falling glissandi. There's a fine recording on Hyperion CD, part of a programme of Bantock's Celtic-inspired works.
Another splendid example is the work simply titled Music for Strings by Arthur Bliss, composed in 1930. It was said at the time that Bliss had staked his claim to be the legitimate successor of Elgar in this work. Like Elgar's monumental Introduction and allegro of this work uses string soloists as well as string orchestra. It's written in an idiom that often sounds Elgarian, but also shows the harmonic impact of the developments in the years since Elgar's work premiered in 1905. Bliss was certainly familiar with works by such cutting-edge composers as Schoenberg, Webern, Berg, and Stravinsky. So the familiar rich sounds of the string orchestra are livened from time to time by acerbic harmonic clashes. These are in any case much less offensive in the soft-grained sound of strings than they would be if played on winds or brasses! In three movements, Bliss demonstrates his complete mastery of string orchestra technique. There's a terrific amount of energy in the first and last movements and a kind of elegiac purity about the middle slower movement. The kind of folk inspiration found in Bantock's work is absent here; this is absolute music, pure and simple, and a splendid example of the art.
The late Richard Hickox recorded a fine version for Chandos records, partnered with another unusual and beautiful Bliss work, the Pastoral (Lie Strewn the White Flocks) for choir, mezzo-soprano, strings, timpani and flute/piccolo. It's a lovely homage to the tradition of the pastoral poem, which was a style of writing that Bliss particularly loved. The ideas for the work began to come to him during a holiday in Sicily, and he conceived of a cycle of short poems that would take you through the shepherd's day from dawn to dusk. This of course means a shepherd of the world of Greco-Roman antiquity, so the god Pan must necessarily be invoked and appear, his voice imitated by the haunting sound of the flute.
This short work, perhaps better identified as a song cycle than a cantata, begins with a string orchestral introduction that seems to depict the waning of night towards the dawn. There then follows a sequence of nine settings of poetry from different writers. Most are set for chorus, but one -- The Pigeon Song -- is given to the mezzo-soprano. In seventh place comes the memorable Song of the Reapers, with the choir's staccato energetic phrases interspersed by wild polytonal skirling from the piccolo. The Pastoral eventually winds down to a gentle conclusion by way of the final Shepherd's Night Song and a short reminiscence of the introduction.
I first heard this beautiful piece, with highly individual string writing throughout, in a concert at Metropolitan United Church (Toronto) under Dr. Melville Cook back in the late 1970s. I was instantly captivated and have waited a long time to get a recording of it. Thank you, Chandos Records and Richard Hickox!
Why else would so many composers from one small group of islands become such masters at the art of manipulating the sound world of the orchestral strings? I'm not referring to string quartets and other variants of chamber music -- this post is specifically about music for stringed instruments en masse, a format which creates quite different sounds.
In most other countries, the sudden appearance of a passage in rich string-orchestral textures is somewhat of a rarity, an interruption in the normal routine of writing for the full orchestra as a body. Try to think of works for string orchestra from the European continent and a few string serenades come to mind -- Dvorak, Tchaikovsky, and perhaps Suk or Janacek. You may also zero in on one undoubted masterpiece of the highest rank, the Metamorphosen of Richard Strauss -- but even here Strauss was writing for 23 solo string players and the richer orchestral textures are shot through with many exquisite passages for only 1 or 2 players at a time.
But in the British Isles, including all of England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, string writing seems to be very much the essence of music making. Almost every major composer since the late 1800s (and most of the minor ones) have produced striking works scored for string orchestras. I really have no theories to suggest on why this should be so, but would love to hear any interesting guesses in the comment section!
The early years produced three popular and enduring masterpieces in this form, the Introduction and allegro by Elgar, the St. Paul's Suite by Holst, and the monumental Fantasia on a theme by Thomas Tallis by Vaughan Williams. These three works, in three very different styles, set the bar very high and doubtless inspired many composers who followed.
At any rate, today I want to discuss three quite different examples. The first is a piece by Granville Bantock called A Celtic Symphony, written for string orchestra and six (!!) harps. It was first performed in 1940, but I believe was written somewhat earlier. It's a classic piece of the type of folk-inflected writing so common in the earlier years of the century among such composers as Holst and Vaughan Williams. The combination of strings and harps creates a kind of misty sound which evokes to outlying regions of northern and western Scotland. I'm specifying Scotland (which is by no means the only Celtic region of Britain) simply because the main theme of the final section has an unmistakable and oft-repeated "Scotch snap" rhythm. The entire work lasts less than 20 minutes and can be divided into 4 "movements" although it is meant to be played continuously. The harps have their moment of glory shortly before the end when all six join in a swirling cadenza of simultaneous rising and falling glissandi. There's a fine recording on Hyperion CD, part of a programme of Bantock's Celtic-inspired works.
Another splendid example is the work simply titled Music for Strings by Arthur Bliss, composed in 1930. It was said at the time that Bliss had staked his claim to be the legitimate successor of Elgar in this work. Like Elgar's monumental Introduction and allegro of this work uses string soloists as well as string orchestra. It's written in an idiom that often sounds Elgarian, but also shows the harmonic impact of the developments in the years since Elgar's work premiered in 1905. Bliss was certainly familiar with works by such cutting-edge composers as Schoenberg, Webern, Berg, and Stravinsky. So the familiar rich sounds of the string orchestra are livened from time to time by acerbic harmonic clashes. These are in any case much less offensive in the soft-grained sound of strings than they would be if played on winds or brasses! In three movements, Bliss demonstrates his complete mastery of string orchestra technique. There's a terrific amount of energy in the first and last movements and a kind of elegiac purity about the middle slower movement. The kind of folk inspiration found in Bantock's work is absent here; this is absolute music, pure and simple, and a splendid example of the art.
The late Richard Hickox recorded a fine version for Chandos records, partnered with another unusual and beautiful Bliss work, the Pastoral (Lie Strewn the White Flocks) for choir, mezzo-soprano, strings, timpani and flute/piccolo. It's a lovely homage to the tradition of the pastoral poem, which was a style of writing that Bliss particularly loved. The ideas for the work began to come to him during a holiday in Sicily, and he conceived of a cycle of short poems that would take you through the shepherd's day from dawn to dusk. This of course means a shepherd of the world of Greco-Roman antiquity, so the god Pan must necessarily be invoked and appear, his voice imitated by the haunting sound of the flute.
This short work, perhaps better identified as a song cycle than a cantata, begins with a string orchestral introduction that seems to depict the waning of night towards the dawn. There then follows a sequence of nine settings of poetry from different writers. Most are set for chorus, but one -- The Pigeon Song -- is given to the mezzo-soprano. In seventh place comes the memorable Song of the Reapers, with the choir's staccato energetic phrases interspersed by wild polytonal skirling from the piccolo. The Pastoral eventually winds down to a gentle conclusion by way of the final Shepherd's Night Song and a short reminiscence of the introduction.
I first heard this beautiful piece, with highly individual string writing throughout, in a concert at Metropolitan United Church (Toronto) under Dr. Melville Cook back in the late 1970s. I was instantly captivated and have waited a long time to get a recording of it. Thank you, Chandos Records and Richard Hickox!
Monday 8 July 2013
Another Beauty That Fell Through The Cracks
Thomas Arne was an English composer, primarily of music for the theatre, who lived from 1710 to 1778. Those dates put him squarely across the evolution from the late Baroque of Bach to the Viennese classical of Haydn and Mozart, by way of what came to be known as the galant style. Like his older contemporary William Boyce (I blogged about him a little while back), Arne composed in a style that was plainly evolutionary.
Arne composed music for dozens of operas, masques, and the like during his lifetime. Much of his most popular theatre music has been lost, perhaps due to a disastrous fire at Covent Garden in 1808. In any case, the kind of English opera which Arne produced passed decisively out of fashion in the latter part of the nineteenth century, and so did Arne. However, he did compose one imperishable popular song -- Rule, Britannia, which is a regular yearly feature at the Last Night of the Proms! He also had a hand in evolving the definitive version of the tune of God Save the King (today, of course, that would be God Save the Queen). Since he was a Roman Catholic, he composed relatively little sacred music.
With so much emphasis on the voice and the stage, it's not surprising that he wrote relatively little free-standing music for instruments. The recording I've just acquired is a lovely set of seven Trio Sonatas, composed for 2 violins and continuo and published in 1757.
Complex or revolutionary this music is not, but then who says a piece of music has to be on the cutting edge to have any intrinsic worth? Arne's sonatas are melodious and lyrical, in a way that makes it easy to appreciate his success in writing for the human voice. There are a few brief dashes at fugal style, but nothing too intensely worked out. Likewise, there are anticipations of the music of Mozart in a few touches, but again nothing that weighs too heavily. The entire set (lasting for 70 minutes) makes for some ideally soothing, gentle background music for a quiet evening of reading.
This recording on Chandos Records' Chaconne early music label is expertly performed by musicians of the Collegium Musicum 90 led by Simon Standage, a foremost exponent of authentic performance in Britain. Standage and company have plainly learned a thing or three about keeping music involving and this record never commits the sin of becoming boring or tedious.
Arne composed music for dozens of operas, masques, and the like during his lifetime. Much of his most popular theatre music has been lost, perhaps due to a disastrous fire at Covent Garden in 1808. In any case, the kind of English opera which Arne produced passed decisively out of fashion in the latter part of the nineteenth century, and so did Arne. However, he did compose one imperishable popular song -- Rule, Britannia, which is a regular yearly feature at the Last Night of the Proms! He also had a hand in evolving the definitive version of the tune of God Save the King (today, of course, that would be God Save the Queen). Since he was a Roman Catholic, he composed relatively little sacred music.
With so much emphasis on the voice and the stage, it's not surprising that he wrote relatively little free-standing music for instruments. The recording I've just acquired is a lovely set of seven Trio Sonatas, composed for 2 violins and continuo and published in 1757.
Complex or revolutionary this music is not, but then who says a piece of music has to be on the cutting edge to have any intrinsic worth? Arne's sonatas are melodious and lyrical, in a way that makes it easy to appreciate his success in writing for the human voice. There are a few brief dashes at fugal style, but nothing too intensely worked out. Likewise, there are anticipations of the music of Mozart in a few touches, but again nothing that weighs too heavily. The entire set (lasting for 70 minutes) makes for some ideally soothing, gentle background music for a quiet evening of reading.
This recording on Chandos Records' Chaconne early music label is expertly performed by musicians of the Collegium Musicum 90 led by Simon Standage, a foremost exponent of authentic performance in Britain. Standage and company have plainly learned a thing or three about keeping music involving and this record never commits the sin of becoming boring or tedious.
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